Lost to a Kingdom
by Lecherous Fever
Summary: In the Fade, Basch met a stranger who listened. Postgame(s). Basch/Ashe and Alistair/Female Tabris. Minor blood.


"Suppression is a prison,  
So I hand you the key to your cell."

- Nico Vega, _Beast_ [paraphrased]

* * *

Basch sank down slowly into soft sheets, aching and tired from a long day of doing nothing. Or to be more exact, a long day of doing nothing in his dead brother's armour, which was not as effortless a task as it may have seemed to certain fellow members of Larsa's court. Despite the calm sensation of energy seeping away in the folds of cloth, his eyes couldn't help but open again, returning to the screen he'd drawn up in front of the armour stand. It had long ago become a necessity. He used to constantly awaken in the night to see the shape of it looming in the corner, half-believing in the haze of sleep that his brother had come back for him from the realm of the dead. Still worse were the days before he acquired the stand, where he would turn over to see the disembodied head of Judge Magister Gabranth sitting atop his desk. The stand was a tactful gift from Larsa, ostensibly a former possession of Vayne's that he no longer wished to see. It was well-made but simple, unadorned – not nearly as ornate as any other thing in the former consul's disused chambers.

Nowadays, Basch placed each piece of armour carefully on the mannequin before bed. He always felt lighter after shrugging out of it. Noah's armour didn't become any easier to wear with time. It wasn't a weight he'd grown accustomed to – rather, it weighed heavier every day. In the beginning, it was strangely easier. He had a duty to perform, a promise to uphold, a young lord to protect. But Larsa was almost a man grown now, and there was little left to protect him from. The civil wars had died down, and the assassination attempts had thinned out to an almost predictable annual event, like the coming of winter. The only place Larsa needed protecting was within the walls of his own palace, from the poisonous schemes of upstart nobles. And perhaps from his own heart. He wrote to Penelo often, even if he never gave in to the temptation of visiting Rabanastre any more than was strictly necessary. But he had been well educated by his betters long before he was entrusted to Basch's care. At all times, he did the right thing. Archadia's youngest emperor was her wisest, and had generally done the best he could for his people. Few found reason to wish ill on him.

He extinguished the candle at his bedside, and forced his eyes to close. Today had brought another letter from Penelo, and with it the standard mentions of Vaan and Ashe. No, that was wrong. She was Princess Ashelia again, would ever be until either death or a husband took her. Whenever Larsa received a letter, he made a point of reading it thoroughly and smiling that lost, faraway smile Basch knew all too well, before calling over his protector and handing it to him. Basch always had to hold them so delicately, lest the paper tear under his gauntlets.

He never slept well on nights he'd read of Ashe.

* * *

The world around was dark and empty. A creeping chill lingered, seeped into bones, cold as hoarfrost. Basch wrenched off his helmet, that the boy might see him for who he was. It was icy to the touch even through thickly gloved fingers.

"Reks, please." He held up his hands placatingly. "I did not kill you. I never meant—"

The young boy rounded on him, pale and terrible, forever seventeen years old. He was clothed in his armour from the treaty-signing, elaborate Landis dagger buried to the hilt in his abdomen. Blood ran from it in thin strands every time the boy made a move.

"Don't you dare stand there and lie to me!" His face was twisted in anger, the intense hatred a perfect mirror of Vaan's when they had first encountered one another. "You pulled me to my feet and then led me to my death. You killed King Raminas; you killed us _all_! You were our_Captain_!"

"Listen to me, Reks," Basch pleaded. "It was not I. I _never_ betrayed Dalmasca." He knew the truth, knew how ridiculous it would sound. Basch swallowed thickly. "My twin brother… he impersonated me, slayed the King, killed my men... They captured me and let him besmirch my name. Reks… I am so sorry."

"And you expect me to believe that?" Reks drew his sword. His pale blue eyes seemed almost the grey of the steel, narrowed and dangerous. "Well, it is a grand tale, Captain. I'll be sure to tell that one to my little brother when he's lying flowers on my grave."

Basch allowed the helmet to drop from his hand – a Judge Magister's helm, he noted.

_But why—_

He blinked, felt liquid rolling into his eyelashes. Rubbing his eye, his fingers came away bloody. The scar on his forehead was weeping as though fresh, the sensation of pain only returning once he noticed the wound was there.

"It seems someone failed to finish the job." Reks' voice was low and menacing, more so than Basch had ever heard from the boy in the brief time he spent with him. "But if your story is true, Captain, then the damage is even worse than you will ever understand. You _did _kill us, as sure as if you'd slain us yourself."

"No—"

"_Yes_," Reks hissed. "You were supposed to protect your men, your king. You failed."

His last word seemed to echo endlessly, immutable fact trying to give itself tangible form. Basch sank to his knees. It was no word of a lie. As a protector, he_ had_ failed, failed in his duty as a soldier and a denizen of Dalmasca. He looked up to Reks, standing above him, blade held steady and aimed at his heart. He closed his eyes.

"Do it, Reks," he spoke quietly. "I deserve it."

"_Stop! Don't!"_

His eyes flew open. The voice was neither Reks' nor his own, nor any other that Basch knew. It sounded miles distant, muffled, but it was no product of his imagination. The boy's eyes flickered, head whipping around in search of it.

"_Don't listen to it! Whoever you think it is, it's not! Do _not_ trust it!_"

The ethereal, bodiless words began to make sense. How did he get here? Why was he wearing Imperial armour? But they could not be right. Basch had done his wrongs and lived, and now it was time to pay for his crimes. Reks had come back, as the dead are wont to do, to haunt him or kill him or torture him – whatever it was, he must deserve it. Any rights done by one person did not make up for the cardinal sins committed to another.

"I care not," he said, more to himself than to his executioner. "End it."

Basch prepared to close his eyes again, waiting for the cold bite of steel to snake under his gorget and take the life he ought not to have. But it never came. He heard the sharp cutting of air – it took him back to the day his life had begun to end, to Nalbina Fortress, seeing and able to do nothing as the fatal shot struck, finding the fault in his prince's armour - it was the unmistakable sound of a fired arrow, flying and hitting its mark. Reks groaned, an inhuman sound, black tendrils swirling around him. Basch glanced over his left shoulder at the archer behind him. A woman, short of stature and heavily armoured, odd markings tracing her face.

"You humans and your sacrifices…" she muttered angrily, loosing another arrow at the twisting form before turning the full force of her glare on Basch. "Does your life mean so little to you?"

The creature shrieked, a piercing sound that left his ears ringing. The darkness was spreading, enveloping them. Through the mist, he saw a blade skate across the ground, coming to a stop in front of him. A longsword of solid, simple steel. The archer was yelling at him over the din; Basch could barely see her face.

"Get UP! Fight!"

He gripped the haft, staggering to his feet. The sword felt strange in his hand after so many years of wielding his brother's twin scythes – even when combined, they made for a very different sort of weapon. But after a few swings, the rhythm of battle came back to him. He and the woman worked in tandem, bringing the beast down once it had shown its true shape. It was nothing approaching human. He found himself reaching for Magicks that had long gone unused, trapping the thing in time and blasting it with elemental spells while the archer switched out her bow for a blade, hacking it to pieces. Finally, it fell at their feet, howling in defeat.

_The darkness will find you, Warden. Sooner or later, you will join its embrace!_

The bestial words sounded close, as if they were whispered in both his ears at once. He knew not if the sinister promise was meant for himself or his ally. He had served as protector for much of life, for many different people, but never had he been titled Warden. A glance at the woman showed a momentary frown passing over her face, gone almost as quickly as it arrived.

"Are you alright, Stranger?" She was breathing heavily from the fight, soaked strands of hair clinging to her face. He took a few steps towards her, flipping the sword to hold it out to her pommel first. Basch was about to speak, but the words died in his throat. Just as his saviour had appeared from nowhere, so did she fade out of existence right in front of his eyes. Left alone in the emptiness, holding the blade of another, Basch was lost. He stowed the weapon as his own, and retrieved his discarded helm. All was blackness.

* * *

Archades was almost always warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. Larsa's favourite spot was a stone bench in the courtyard, the point of greatest freedom within the palace grounds. It was only ever used by him, and it was where he went to read his letters. Basch always made a point of keeping his distance, leaving the young emperor alone to try and maintain some semblance of privacy. But invariably, Larsa would eventually wave him over, invite him to take a seat and hand him whatever letter he had finished reading on that particular day. And invariably, Basch would quietly refuse the seat, and take the letter. Until this day.

"News of Rabanastre?" He need not ask. Larsa had spent the best part of an hour reading and reclining, folding and refolding the delicate sheet before summoning him. Basch discerned Penelo's neat writing before the page had even left Larsa's hand. He set to scanning her words. Balthier and Fran leaving cryptic notes for Vaan on his travels, trinkets she'd found in Bhujerba, suitors for Ashe… Basch froze. He re-read, slowly, carefully.

'_I've heard that some suitors are being lined up for Ashe. They're getting anxious about there being no heir to Dalmasca. I suppose it was going to happen sooner or later, but I'm not so sure it's a good idea. We don't get to see her much, but whenever we do, she's always wearing her wedding ring..._'

He handed the letter back to its recipient, saying nothing. That marked the first day that Basch had ever taken up Larsa's offer of a seat.

* * *

Kallian awoke with the distant memory of a dream. Of it, there was little to remember, though she had the distinct feeling that she had saved someone. It had been some time since her travelling companions became lost in the Fade, and she'd had to pull them from their own dreams, but the feeling was much the same – relief at their liberation, and the dull sense of loss that followed at being separated from them once again. There had been a stranger... a stranger so ready to be punished. The abomination's words were all she was sure of, ringing inside her skull. But beyond that, there was next to nothing, mere ghosts of old feelings.

She stretched, savouring the last few moments in which her body would be free of all armament. This time, for once, she was without company. Of course, there were errands to run and things to be done – there always were – but for the first time in what seemed like her entire life, she didn't have anyone with her. Living in the Alienage meant the death of anything like privacy, always someone to wander in and share the day with. But she had long left the close squalor of home, and the friends who had filled the void were scattered to the four winds now too. The absence of bickering and sentry-duty banter made the nights too quiet. At least when Morrigan and Alistair had tested the utmost limits of verbal cruelty at unholy hours of the night, there had been, well… Morrigan and Alistair. Now, both were far from her reach, one vanished forevermore, the other keeping the seat Kallian had placed him in. She shook her head, forced herself not to dwell on the thought.

Birds twittered madly at each other in the dawn. The small gap where the cloth of the tent did not quite meet hinted at clouds painted dusky pink in the first of morning's light. Kallian mused, sliding on her clothes. Perhaps she would stay and watch the sun rise today, no one here now to hurry or hinder her. Picking up each piece of armour in turn, she assembled herself like a puzzle; put together to face another day as the Warden Commander, the Hero of Ferelden. She could pretend in those few waking moments that she was still herself, simply Kallian, and nothing else. But once she was clothed in her clunking metal badge of office, the illusion was dispelled. Nameless, but never faceless, and forever in demand. Today, it was the merchants of Amaranthine; tomorrow, it might be anyone else in need of something they did not dare do themselves.

Her Grey Warden armour weighed heavy – much like the weight of sacrifice, Duncan had once told her. That was the way of the Wardens. _In death, sacrifice_. Yet she was still very much alive, and her sacrifices were beyond counting. Her life was only the first.

Drawing aside the tent flap, she stepped out, boots flattening dew-soaked grass. She froze at the shape before her. Time and experience had taught her to sleep lightly, but she had not stirred in the night, did not hear anyone even approach her camp, much less bunk down right outside her tent. The person – at least, she hoped it was a person – was covered with a black cloth that at first glance looked to be some sort of noble drapery. But on closer inspection, the red markings were no pattern. It was a sigil. It didn't belong to any house or order that Kallian was aware of. Even the colours were atypical – red on black. Perhaps because it carried with it the reminder of darkspawn. She pulled back the cape, little knowing what she expected to find underneath.

It was indeed a person – a man, wearing carefully wrought armour of the deepest grey she had ever seen. A matching helmet rested in the crook of his arm as he slept. His cropped golden hair glimmered slightly in the dim light, and a years-old scar traced a long line over his forehead, ending just beneath his left eyebrow. It had long since healed as much as it would ever, but it remained dark against his skin. Kallian was given pause when she saw a weapon of her own, a backup longsword, strapped to his side. Images came back to her in bits and pieces – the cut bleeding down into closed eyes, him kneeling in wait, wraith standing over him...

The stranger.

Using her foot, she prodded the sleeper. He jolted awake, hand already on the hilt of the sword that was hers, blue eyes blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. Rising, he squinted, but stayed his hand.

"You," he breathed. Kallian held out a hand, saying nothing. It seemed that he remembered her, immediately. Most did not remember much of their time in the Fade, but already, he did not seem like most to her. His grip was solid, and he gave a quick nod of thanks as she helped him to his feet.

"I was thoroughly convinced I had made you up," he said. "Ah… forgive me, spouting such nonsense…" he paused, glancing around, brows falling low. "Where am I?"

"My camp," she replied shortly. "I was rather hoping you would tell me what exactly you're doing here." He frowned.

"I… I know not. I am fairly certain I fell asleep in my own chambers." Kallian blinked up at him around the dark strands of hair that fell in her face. His voice had the sound of nobility, but his scar and soldier's stature told a different tale. A hand came up to rub at his forehead. "Do not take this badly, but I dreamt of you… it is strange I should wake to you standing over me."

She wanted to retort, remind him that it was _she_ who had woken to find him invading _her_ space. But she held her tongue, as life had long taught her to, pitying his outright confusion.

"I know you did," she instead replied. "I remember."

"You- but, how is that possible?"

"It is the Fade. We cannot expect it to operate by our laws," Kallian replied. Although it was indeed bizarre for her to recall a dream that was not a calling from the darkspawn, or the cruel projections of a happy future she would not have. His brows drew even lower, if such a thing were possible. Something was not right here. He seemed restless, lost, like he had lived his entire life on a rock only to wake in the sea.

"What is your name, stranger?" she asked, posing a question he most likely _could_ answer.

"I am Judge-" he stopped himself, casting his eyes around before resettling on her. "Basch," he said, softly. "My name is Basch fon Ronsenburg."

"An odd name. Where are you from?"

Kallian had the distinct impression he was not listening to her. His eyes traced her face, noted her ears.

"I apologise for how this is going to sound, but… what manner of hume are you? Your ears…"

She almost started at that. "_Hume?_ Surely you aren't mistaking me for a human!" Only select members of the Dalish ever suggested the like, and only when they wanted to insult her or her brethren. "I am a city elf. From the Denerim Alienage," she said crossing her arms.

"I am sorry," he said, perhaps because it was the right thing to say. Confusion still prevailed in his features. "How rude of me - I didn't ask your name. May I know it?"

This time, Kallian _was _caught off guard. Her titles and reputation preceded her wherever she went. How long was it since someone last asked her_name_?

"My name is Kallian Tabris." She hadn't missed the aborted title in his introduction, and so she left out her own. It was a rarity to find someone who did not know who she was.

"I… I am not in Ivalice anymore, am I?"

"Ivalice?" The word tasted strange on her tongue. "I have never heard of it. Is that somewhere in Orlais?"

"I do not know of any Orlais." Basch's shoulders slumped, and a great sigh passed his lips. "Ivalice is… the world I am from."

Kallian's arms dropped to her side. The Amaranthine merchants would have to wait a little longer.

* * *

Their bargain lasted near five days – his sword arm in return for her endeavours to send him back home. After Kallian and Basch had spent the first day learning the basics of one another, the deal was struck, and she agreed to take him to the Circle of Magi at first light. Strikingly, the Circle had known nothing about portals to other worlds. Now it was investigating the Fade with all the manpower it had to spare, bar the few obdurate mages who could summon no interest, preferring instead to work on their own projects. They lost nearly half a day in trying to explain themselves and exert the influence of her position before the mages even consented to help, and three and a half days into their research, they were no closer to finding Basch a way back. It didn't help that all they knew was that they met in the Fade, that he had slept in one world and woke in another. On the fifth day they spent together, she proposed that they leave to give the spell-weavers time and space to work, and to give them time to know each other better. Basch was perhaps the first being to ever enter Thedas from a different world, and it was rude to be thinking of nothing but marching him back whence he came. Or so she said to him.

Hours were spent in their carefully constructed encampment, trying to explain the ways and quirks of their worlds as neither of them had ever had to do before. Basch told Kallian of these Viera with rabbit-like ears, scantily clad and wood-dwelling and secretive. She could only imagine what Morrigan would have to say about that, and found it most strange that Ivalice should have a race of people such as these and yet nothing resembling elves. Basch had been equally bewildered to hear of the treatment of mages in Thedas, when wielding of Magicks was fairly commonplace in Ivalice, and certainly not punished to such degrees. At first, Basch had not felt like speaking so frankly to a woman he barely knew. But the elf was persistent, determined to learn enough about him that she need no longer call him 'stranger'. Even that epithet had been a welcome change from the title that oft went before him.

At her insistence, they talked at length – about anything and everything. When he asked how she'd come to be where she was, she had to retrace her steps and tell him about the wedding she wasn't keen to have; how it had swiftly descended into a wedding no one ever wanted.

"I am sorry. It must be difficult to talk of."

Kallian waved off the apology, but the fireside fell silent for a time. Dusk morphed into dark virtually without notice. Few stars were visible beyond the clouds, and they were soon grateful of the heat from the flames.

"His name was Nelaros," she said finally. She mentioned Vaughan and his lackeys, being too late for Shianni and her groom both, taking the wedding ring from his body. Kallian rolled the selfsame ring between her thumb and forefinger. She held it up; squinting at the small circle of world that she could see through it. "I didn't know him. I never got the chance to love him. But I always kept this…"

Basch said nothing, merely regarded her in profile. Ashe had likewise kept a wedding ring, a mark of a love lost – also an arranged marriage, but one that seemed to bring her happiness in its short span. Her face had twisted when she handed the ring over to Balthier. They were all silent then.

"I think it was so I would remember. So that if I ever made something of myself with the Grey Wardens, I would remember what it was that brought me there... I would remember the injustices my family was made to suffer." He offered a smile.

"You are not blood kin, and yet it sounds like you and your fellow elves have such a close bond. Would it were so in all families."

She cocked her head to the side, watching him gaze into the fire. "I take it your blood kin are… not so close to you."

Basch gave a small laugh. To explain one thing, he needed to clarify another, and so the whole sad tale slowly unravelled. Fleeing the empire and splitting from his family; rising to captain within the Dalmascan army; Noah's systematic orchestration of his disgrace, with no greater skill than sharing his face.

"That was the night he gave me this," he said, gesturing to the scar.

When it finally came to trying to explain why he had taken up his brother's last request, she stopped him with a knowing nod. Kallian knew, she said, what it was like to have a duty placed on your shoulders, like a cloak that would never fray or untie. Both of them did what they had to, took up the responsibility because someone must.

Despite the earthly differences of their worlds, the two found much alike in their lives. True, Basch had not won the renown that Kallian had, but he recognised the emptiness that came with the knowledge of doing the right thing.

For several days, they did little but travel on the roads, she doing her best to avoid being drawn into local disputes and errands, he doing his best to help her out however he might. Ferelden had him captivated. There were so many places where natural life was thick, overflowing always with the earthy scent that usually only ever followed rain on Ivalice. The plains they traversed were empty without being desolate, green and alive as far as the eye could see. It mattered not what she had told him of the darkspawn and other creatures that wrecked the land - what he had seen of it cemented it in his mind as a place of peace. Occasionally, they would meet some such creatures on the road, but more often than not, his blade was unnecessary. Kallian hit hard and true. At some moments, he was taken back to the Nabreus Deadlands, Fran shaming them all by felling their foes overhead before anyone else had even sighted them.

He made an effort to not speak much of Ashe when he relayed his stories, but something betrayed him – perhaps his voice or his eyes - or perhaps it was just a sympathetic soul guessing at his misery. Kallian always pressed him for more, and finally he managed to admit to her what he had not even permitted in his own thoughts. He loved Ashe. After all this time, his heart still stopped when he saw Larsa's beckoning hand in the courtyard; his dreams still taunted him with what he had not said and would not have. It was too much, and it had been locked away for too long. Yet she never once told him to stop. She only listened. Every so often, her eyes would drift to the fire and she would seem somewhere else. But she heard every word he said, sometimes responding with a few quiet words of her own.

This Ashe... the way Basch talked about her was the way anyone could ever wish to be talked of, with admiration, respect and longing in equal measure. Those tones would never be heard from the blond who was once hers – not ever in relation to Kallian, anyway. Eventually, Basch decided it was time to turn the elf's own curiosity on her. As much as she had wanted to know about him and even talk about her own experiences, on this subject, she was hesitant.

"I sense there is something you don't wish to tell me."

"It's not that," she replied hastily. "He—it is not worth speaking about."

"Kallian, everything you have told me about yourself has been worth saying. I do not believe you will disappoint me now." There was a small smile on his face as he said it. "Tell me about him."

In the end, her sense of fairness won out and she spilled the broken pieces of herself for him to see.

"His name is Alistair," she began. "He was the other Warden who survived with me at Ostagar. And I made him King of Ferelden."

Basch listened. Somehow, just the fact of having someone to hear made the words easier to speak. Since Leliana had left, Kallian had not really had anyone to confide in. The Orlesian had helped hold the elf together, between Alistair's ascension and the death of the Archdemon, but once she'd left, there was only silence in her wake. She spoke of how Alistair had won her over without even trying, of the warning from Wynne she should have heeded to end it before it started. She talked of everything with little pause – blood trailing the stone floor of the Landsmeet, Alistair doing the right thing and casting her aside, the dark ritual that had both torn her apart and spared her life. Kallian recounted standing in the chamber before all of Ferelden's nobles at the end of it all, called up and hailed as a hero by the man she loved. That marked the beginning of the time Alistair spoke to her in that way, as if she were no different from any other subject – judged only on her accomplishments, never on how she made him feel.

"He told me then that he would grant me any one thing I wanted, if he could," she sighed. "All I wanted was to say 'leave the throne. Let Anora have it, just stay with _me_'.But I didn't. I asked for my people's freedom, and I left him to be king." Kallian laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose that's at least two things I did right. My people are happier now. And Alistair does make a good king."

"That was noble of you," Basch said softly. He reached out a hand and laid it gently on her shoulder. "I do not think I'd have done the same, were I you."

"I don't think that's true at all. You gave up the one you loved too."

He smiled and withdrew his hand. "Dalmasca deserved her."

"Well, then. There you are."

They shared a supper of roasted rabbit, content to simply speak and be silent by turns. Basch could not help but confide in Kallian about the letter that was preying upon his mind.

"To lose her to duty is bad enough. To lose her to someone else would be…" he trailed off. "I don't think I could set foot in Rabanastre again." Kallian's eyebrows drew upwards. She told him she understood. Alistair would need to have an heir soon enough, lest history repeat itself.

"When that day comes," she said, "I think my time as Warden Commander will be done."

"And what will you do instead?" Basch asked.

Kallian sighed, and cast her eyes skyward. "I don't know yet." Her voice was quiet, only just audible over the crackling of the fire and the chirping of crickets.

"We find ourselves in similar situations, then," he replied gravely. "I do my best not to see her often. It is… too painful." The elf nodded, her next words quieter still than her last.

"When Alistair and I meet now, it's only ever official business. And he talks to me as if we never fought a war together, as if there were never_anything_ between us." A stuttering breath passed her lips and when her voice returned, it was shaky. "Basch… I've been pummelled by ogres, had my bones shattered, been tossed around by the damned Archdemon. But that – that _hurts_."

He knew not what excuse he mumbled about cold or chills or sickness, but he took her thick sleeping blanket and sat by her side. Kallian rested on his shoulder with little encouragement. Basch draped the covering around them both, and there they stayed for a long time.

"Sometimes, I wish I'd never agreed to the ritual, and just died with the Archdemon," she said at one point. "I wish I'd died at Ostagar. I wish Duncan had never come to the Alienage, and none of this would have happened. Sometimes."

Neither of them slept that night.

* * *

As the hours wore on and the sky grew lighter, their sad commentaries on lost loves turned to angry ones, until finally all their venom had been spent. When they had exhausted the subject of Ashe and Alistair, silence retook its comfortable place among them. Until some joke crass joke Balthier had once made aboard the _Strahl_ came back to Basch. And she laughed, utterly unbidden. By sunrise, they had found happier stories to share – Vaan's various numerous faux pas, Oghren's spectacular drinking habits, every stupid little thing that had gone unremembered in the chaos of living their lives. Soon, the tears they were wiping out of their eyes were ones of laughter.

In the Fade, Basch met a stranger who listened. They had much in common – a mantle they had needed to take up, a name that no one spoke anymore, a love they had lost to a kingdom. Noah once told him that life would never be done dealing out its punishments to heroes. They were the ones who could handle them. But perhaps after all the loss and submission and sacrifice he and Kallian had endured between them, they had earned their happiness. And just being beside her in this strange world, simply telling his tales and hearing hers, brought him no small amount of it.

She was bathed in the orange light of Fereldan sunrise, discarded armour glinting beside her. Without it, she looked so small. He did not wonder that many had spent much of her short life trying to abase her, or that they had been surprised to learn the shape of their saviour. She faced him, smiling. How different she looked when she smiled. The hard set of her face was forgotten, her sad stare moved aside for the first real look of contentment he'd seen from her. Basch's own smile followed without him willing it. Kallian Tabris was like no woman he'd ever met, or was likely to ever meet again.

The fire had almost burnt out entirely, little left of it but a few last smoking embers. She stood and made to extinguish it.

"You know, one thing is forever omitted from tales about heroes, and I think it perhaps the most important thing about them." Basch stated.

"And what is that?" she stated.

"That they are never happy."

Kallian paused where she was stood, and smiled to herself.

"They omit it because people cannot know that heroes don't get to be happy. If they did, who would ever do themselves the injustice of becoming one?"

"I suppose you are right," Basch laughed. He folded up their shared blanket while she kicked the last life out of their fire. Yes, they had earned the right to be selfish, he thought. For one more day, at least.


End file.
